Генри Керк Уайт (Henry Kirke White)

The Trent

ONCE more, O Trent! along thy pebbly marge
A pensive invalid, reduced, and pale,
From the close sick-room newly let at large,
Wooes to his wan-worn cheek the pleasant gale.
O, to his ear how musical the tale
Which fills with joy the throstle’s little throat!
And all the sounds which on the fresh breeze sail,
How wildly novel on his senses float!
It was on this that many a sleepless night,
As lone he watched the taper’s sickly gleam,
And at his casement heard, with wild affright,
The owl’s dull wing and melancholy scream,
On this he thought, this, this, his sole desire,
Thus once again to hear the warbling woodland choir.

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